


Twice, to Make Sure

by devetsil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Creepy, Drug Use, Gen, Hallucinations, Horror, Psychological Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:11:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devetsil/pseuds/devetsil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock brings back a sample of something Very Bad from the Baskerville labs and does a second trial run, so to speak. What does he fear? (See tags for warnings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice, to Make Sure

**Author's Note:**

> \- The case studies from Project H.O.U.N.D. are in italics and are pulled from the episode itself, transcribed [here](http://iamilex.tumblr.com/post/15680155443/project-h-o-u-n-d). Some of the medical jargon doesn't make sense, but I didn't want to alter the original episode content, so that's entirely not my fault, haha. Blame the Sherlock team.  
> \- 'LACHN' is a pun on ' **a** nti **ch** oli **n** ergic' and 'le chien'. I have the worst sense of humor ever, sorry.  
> \- You can read some interesting case studies on the effects of 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate, aka BZ or QNB, [here](http://www.10zenmonkeys.com/2007/01/10/hallucinogenic-weapons-the-other-chemical-warfare/) and [here](http://www.erowid.org/chemicals/bz/bz_basics.shtml). Very fascinating, scary stuff. Naturally, you can find more information on military trials with LSD and other hallucinogenic or anticholinergic agents and whatnot using your friend Google. Hopefully you don't run across anything to do with a Project H.O.U.N.D.!  
> 

_This is happening tonight_ , he decided to himself just as the water came to a boil.

It was perfect. Mrs. Hudson had turned in early after bringing up some teacakes, but she was still available downstairs should, god forbid, he need emergency medical attention. He had his mobile at easy access. John was out on a date with yet another girlfriend who was more tediously boring than the previous ones in entirely new, unexciting ways. At the very least this ensured a complete lack of his bothersome guilt-tripping. And this way John couldn't get angry and do away with the substance entirely. As much as Sherlock loved him, John frequently underestimated the necessary lengths one must go to for proper scientific analysis.

He had experimented with deliriants before, back in his days at Uni...he and a friend had managed to secure some muscimol. The resultant trip was less than pleasant, and he spent the majority of it drenched with sweat and whimpering in Victor's arms. Not his poison of choice, really. And at one point during his own personal research he spent a number of days reading up on case studies of military drug experiments, chemical warfare trials, and the like. He had a passing knowledge of MK-ULTRA, the controlled use of QNB in case studies, and, of course, Project H.O.U.N.D. It so rarely came up in his line of work that he didn't see fit to do much other than store the information away for a later time. He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair. Chemically, the LACHN had the properties of an anticholinergic agent. (LACHN was the name he privately came up with for the agent. At least no one could accuse him of lacking a sense of humour.) The records he took down during his first experience held more than enough proof. He kept his notes on the physical symptoms in a notepad which was currently resting on the side table nearest to his thinking chair. Dry throat, increased heart rate, bodily tremors, auditory and visual hallucinations, disorientation, lack of mental clarity... Naturally, his deductive abilities were still a class above anything he'd expect from an average person, but even they suffered. Having a body with all of its chemical faults and failings could be so remarkably irksome at times.

Actually obtaining a sample had been annoying enough. A quick search through Frankland's old work stations had netted him a few milligrammes of the agent in its powder form. Well, rather, a quick _conversation_ on the benefits of personal scientific inquiry and study with Dr. Stapleton had netted him a few milligrammes of the agent. But that conversation never happened. No. Nor did his visit to Baskerville that morning, for that matter. Who's to say otherwise? John was asleep.

He managed to sneak along a small plastic bag of the drug secured just behind where the belt buckle rested on his trousers. In his defence, the transportation of ill-gotten, illegal chemical warfare agents via train called for desperate measures. He couldn't have very well explained that to any weapons-friskers. He spent an afternoon in the kitchen a few days later examining the properties of the powder when John was doing the shopping. After some debate, he decided that its effects merited more...examination. And who better than him? Lucky thing he still had a half-full bottle of gelatin capsules in the cabinet above his bathroom's sink. Felicitous, really.

So he had it. One pill, carefully packed, resting unceremoniously on a saucer next to his cup of tea. He'd made others just in case, but they were currently squirrelled away in another container within the confines of his underwear drawer. It wasn't as meticulously organised as his sock drawer, so no harm done there. He certainly wouldn't risk storing them in any of the flat's cabinets or pantries. He didn't know for certain if the oral ingestion of the LACHN would differ much from the inhalation, but an aerosol dispersal technique would be too costly and too impractical for use in any of the rooms. That, and John would kill him if Mrs. Hudson didn't first. No need to expose them to it, as badly as he wanted to have the hard data from a mix of subjects...

He opened his eyes and stretched lazily along the length of his chair. Time for trial two. He had his notepad at the ready to record every sensation and effect as it happened. He reached over to the side table and lifted a folder labelled simply as "H.O.U.N.D." onto his lap. He flipped through the contents one last time, making mental notes as his eyes darted along the print-offs.

_"The subject has suffered memory lapses and hallucinations after receiving each fear test, repeatedly, for the last 48 hours. The subject began having delusions that insects were infesting his epidermis, while clawing aggressively at his arms and pleading for help. During the surprise effect test, where a horn is sounded into the room at random moments, the patient became hysterical. A nurse who had entered the room to attend the patient was also attacked. After the attack, the patient injured himself by slamming his forehead against the floor and was later hospitalised with an epidermal hematoma."_

Insects under the skin. Fascinating. Hadn't he seen a film like this, once? Something John had picked out for horror night a few months ago...maybe. John. John would likely throttle him if he knew what Sherlock was doing with his own Friday night. How boring would life be if everyone avoided dangerous chemical deliriants that they had unpleasant experiences with? Honestly. And at least John had been safe in the lab. Sherlock had made sure of that much, at least, during the control experiment. In reality, _his_ own experiences with the chemical had placed _him_ in far greater danger. He was entirely unmonitored and exposed to a much higher dose out in the hollow. The company of Henry could hardly count, as he was exactly the last person Sherlock would trust to stay stable if something were to happen to him that night, a negative reaction or similar. Back to the file.

_"Several subjects have become increasingly distressed during the light and sound fear inducing test over the last few days, resulting in aggressive episodes. This test involves switching off the lights inside the patient’s room, leaving them in complete darkness. Disconcerting noise is then fed through speakers into the room. The aim of the test is to induce a fear of the darkness. To induce a fear of the possible or imagined dangers concealed in the darkness, and how the survival mechanism responds to such an environment."_

Indeed. Sherlock chuckled lightly, but then swallowed the feeling down. Distressed, induced fear, survival mechanism... _John_. Poor John. He was fine, though, in the end. Next.

_During the human presence tests, subjects have now been frequently observed displaying mutual aggression towards one another. However, some of these exchanges lack the intensity and ferocity of attacks on themselves and those seen on staff members in past sessions. Alone, the subjects seem passive and un-stimulated. They lean against the walls for support, sit down, be recumbent and stagger aimlessly in short uncoordinated steps. Many appear to be displaying visual signs of being unwell, i.e. nausea and vomiting._

The nausea would be unpleasant, certainly, but he couldn't risk preventively medicating himself for it. Might interfere with the LACHN or result in a negative reaction of some kind.

_Keywords: extreme suggestibility, fear and stimulus, aerosol dispersal, conditioned terror, paranoia, blood-brain, severe frontal lobe damage, dangerous acceleration, gross cranial trauma, multiple homicide..._

Sherlock gently shut the folder and flopped it onto the rug, shutting his eyes again. No need to be frightened. He'd have auditory and visual hallucinations at worst. It wasn't anything he hadn't already lived through, and under far less suitable conditions for study, at that. He exhaled. His tea was now lukewarm, he discovered, as he lifted the cup from his saucer. He gingerly picked up the gel cap between a thumb and forefinger and brought it to rest on his tongue, quickly swallowing it down dry. A mouthful of tea followed.

There. Simple. No frills.

He quickly swigged the remaining bland contents of his cup and turned to a fresh page in his notepad. He clicked his pen ready after giving his watch a passing glance.

**20:56: Ingested pill w/ 177 ml brewed tea (PG tips, steeped 4min), 8 g granulated white sugar, 1 tsp sk. milk.**

And after a moment of thought, he scrawled: **Unpleasant taste in back of mouth.**

He leaned back again and alternated between resting his eyes and breathing deep, controlled breaths in relaxed stretches. John would certainly be happy; this was literally as close as he'd ever get to practising the meditative breathing exercises that John always suggested when he was keyed up and on edge between cases. Utterly useless rubbish. He adjusted himself in his seat to a more comfortable angle and looked at his watch. 21:15. Nothing. After another agonising period of stillness, he did so again. 21:22. Managed to kill seven minutes, at least. He was starting to feel a light restless sensation in his limbs, and his pulse was noticeably elevated. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, even. He didn't think ahead to have a mirror handy, but he was almost certain that his pupils would be beginning to dilate sooner or later. He could walk to the toilet and find out for himself after a time. He stretched, and the motion sent vague tingles of warmth shooting across his skin. The warmth increased as he shifted yet again. It was interesting for a short while but now bordered on discomfort. He reached over to his notepad. He could already feel a coil of nausea starting to settle in his stomach, which had been restless for a while. He suddenly regretted the decision to stay un-medicated, but it was a bit late in the game for that now.

**21:22: Elevated heart rate. Increased body temperature. Nausea, dry throat. Beginnings of mydriasis possible.**

He clicked his pen shut. The sitting room was taking on a very slight fuzzy edge. He blinked a few times. For an experimental test of an illegal deliriant, this was rather tedious. He reached down into the cushion of the chair and retrieved the remote. If nothing else, he could at least watch telly to pass the time. He doubted he could make much work of a violin piece. News, perhaps, to see what brother dearest was doubtlessly preoccupying himself with. The screen flickered on to some mundane medical drama. He wondered vaguely if John actually enjoyed this sort of thing. He had said that _House MD_ was fairly unrealistic, but he still watched it from time to time. He flicked to another channel, and another. News. Nature programme. More news. The channels started to bleed into each other as he passed each of them over. It was so...boring. Banal. Weather, news, talk show, reality show, dancing programme. It was all the same. He settled on the news after all. More depressing reports of conflicts in the Middle East. He sat forward and peered into the faces of various interviewees. Every word bled into another, every face just a static repeat of the previous. Static, nothing but pounding static. His ears started to ring with the sound of it, and the white noise of his visual field bled into every image that flashed across the screen. It was starting to be a bit maddening. He stared at the screen blankly and blinked. _Had_ he just been looking at static the entire time? Maybe the Yarders were right about him. Or it could just be the drugs. More likely, that. He chuckled to himself, suddenly feeling incredibly uneasy and on edge.

Alone.

He clicked the TV off, leaned back into his chair, and closed his eyes again. He reached up to massage his temples, and the act sent jolts of uncomfortable warmth down both of his arms. He started to groan in response, but the sound caught in his throat as the soft thud of footsteps echoed in the corridor just outside the door. Shit. Shit. Two quick knocks and the light weight of the steps informed him that Mrs. Hudson had come up. Better her than John, at least. She'd probably just get onto him for leaving her teacakes untouched still. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and turned to greet her. She was fully dressed and wearing the green cardigan she seemed to favour. Unusual for this time of night, but he was still wearing his day clothes with his sleeves rolled up, so...

"Thought you were having an early night," he said plainly, as he checked his watch. Curiously, his watch wrist was unsteady, as was the rest of his hand. He flexed his fingers experimentally, but the small shakes persisted. That was sure to be annoying. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he immediately felt the gooseflesh forming in its wake. His handwriting was certainly more of a scrawl than usual, as well.

**21:45: Visual disturbances. Hand tremors. Paranoia. (?)**

"Was just checking in on you, dear. Did you want some company, with John being out? Could refresh the tea a bit."

Sherlock turned to look at his empty cup, sat neatly in its saucer. He swallowed dryly. "I wouldn't mind, actually. Kettle's on the counter." She chuckled and walked over to the side table, retrieving his cup and starting towards the kitchen to fetch it. Sherlock busied himself looking at the fibres of his trouser leg.

"I'm so glad, dear. I worry about you up here, all by yourself, when John's not around..." Sherlock turned his head slowly towards her as her slight, cheerful voice morphed into a menacing, familiar brogue. "And I've wanted to see you all day. I've really been wanting to spend quality time with you, Sherlock. I've been thinking about you _all_ night long," Moriarty finished with a sharp smile.

Oh.

**21:47: ...**

Sherlock bent double and cradled his head in his hands, idly running his fingers through his hair. Not real, remember. Not real. It was the pill doing this. It was logic, all logic. He peered upwards from his own hands to face the other man, who was standing in...what seemed to be a fine suit, but was really...nothing. His vision was shifting. Moriarty singularly appeared to be both clothed in a black designer suit and entirely nude, blurred beyond the waist. Red skin. Blood... death. His eyes were empty and dead. Sad. Sherlock's head was literally swimming with static now, and he could feel every heartbeat echoing in his skull. Static.

"Have you been thinking of me, too, Sherlock?"

"Not as such, considering you're not actually here. _Real_ ," he spat. Speaking proved to be a bit of a challenge without slurring the edges of everything, but he managed.

"You've wounded me, Sherlock," Moriarty breathed with a perverted hitch. "You've wounded me so, _so_ deeply just now. Words can hurt people, you know." He pulled what could only be described as a delightfully overblown face of misery.

"I suppose you would know." He closed his eyes and focused inwards, trying to pull away from the buzzing sensation fighting for control over his own thought processes. He snapped his eyes open and stood, shakily. Bad idea; the Persian rug beneath his feet was writhing in a snake-like pattern. He gripped the edge of his chair to balance himself before his knees could give way. "What are you going to do to me, mm?" He stopped to swallow again, which was rather painful at this point. "Torture me? Kill me?"

Moriarty paced around the sitting room, circling Sherlock like a wolf. "That would be so much fun, wouldn't it? Seeing you squirm like that. _Veeeery_ exciting."

Sherlock cringed, and bit back an animal sound. "You're disgusting." Moriarty just laughed and spoke out in a sing-song voice.

" _I know you are, but what am I?_ " His smile faded and he glanced deadly at Sherlock. "I could torture you, you know. I could do so many things to you. I could tie you to your chair and carve you up." Sherlock shuddered as the thought evoked painfully graphic images in his mind's eye. He couldn't just see, he could feel.

"--I could cut your fingers off one by one. Wouldn't that be fun? With something blunt, of course. It would be too quick, otherwise. And I'm not the sort of guy to finish fast, if you know what I mean, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, but could feel--against all reason--everything. The cords biting into his skin as he sat fastened to his own sitting room chair, the sound of steel on bone as a dull knife cut away into each of his fingers, more slowly each time than the previous. Blood, his blood, everywhere, quietly screaming... Moriarty laughed softly, and Sherlock felt himself being pulled back into reality with a violent jerk. Not-reality.

"But that isn't the worst of what I'd do to you, Sherlock Holmes." He paused briefly to lick his lips, almost...salaciously. "Not even the worst of what I could do. What I could do to you...what I could do to them." Moriarty tilted his head to the side and shifted his eyes as if motioning to another invisible occupant of the room. Sherlock intuitively knew what he meant. _John. Mrs. Hudson. God knows who else..._

Something deep inside Moriarty snapped, and his body--or form, or whatever it was--relaxed. "...it would be a lot of fun, you know." Moriarty took a slow step towards him, and Sherlock instinctively flinched and tried to back away into his chair. "To see you like that, I mean. To see you...hurt, like that." Sherlock's breathing became nothing short of rapid as Moriarty took a final step closer. He could hyperventilate like this, and his hands, his hands were shaking uncontrollably...

Moriarty stood in silence, saying nothing. He looked like nothing. Just...empty. A void, where his face and chest should have been. It was the most frightening thing Sherlock had ever seen. But he still stood. Moriarty reached down into nothingness and produced a small paring knife, no bigger than the sort one would use to carve fruit. Before he could protest, Moriarty gracefully stabbed him through the stomach, twisting the small knife in his insides over and over. Sherlock couldn't scream, but the pain in his gut was hot enough to bring him to his knees as geysers of blood erupted from his stomach and sliced intestine. It felt like he would bleed out for an eternity over the rug, and he fell to the floor as he clutched his own sides. The room started to distort, and he quickly realised...

...that he was alone again. Alone. Entirely alone. No knife, either. The patterns of the Persian rug rippled and crawled away from him as he tried to lift himself. He was literally in a pool of his own blood. Their sitting room was a pool of blood. Not good.

He could spot his notepad just a few steps away, not too far out of reach...it was rather drenched. He tried to steady himself once more, and ended up twisted on his side again with the room in a textured spiral around him. He snapped his eyes closed and groaned. Very not good. Waves of nausea started to course through his insides, as well. He couldn't be sick on the sitting room rug, he wouldn't be sick on the sitting room rug... he swallowed hard, sending another spike of nausea jolting down through his throat, constricting his chest. The sitting room was melting away from his legs, practically, as he all but crawled towards the kitchen tile. The lino felt cold and soothing against his arms, at least, but it did nothing to stop his stomach lurching. Suddenly fearful of not making it to his bedroom toilet, he hoisted himself up towards the counter and dry heaved over the sink. He was rather thankful that John had done the washing up earlier in the day. He coughed and tried to force himself to vomit, but his throat clenched in a burning pain. Nothing came. He coughed harder and tried to gag once more to no avail. His arm slid from underneath him and he came to settle on the floor with his head pressed against the sink's cabinet. The only thing he could hear was a rhythmic clicking sound in his head and a searing ocean of static, everywhere.

Passing out would be a welcome relief from this, data be damned. But he couldn't manage as much even if he wanted at the moment. His head was literally swimming in static and his ears and eyes were swamped with a blinding white noise reverberating straight down his body from his skull. It took him a moment to realise that the clicking wasn't a clicking at all, but the shaky, uncontrolled tapping of his fingernails against the kitchen floor. He tried to swallow again, but his throat was painfully dry and he couldn't manage. He closed his eyes and suppressed another dry heave twisting its way up his throat. He exhaled deeply, and slowly let his body slink downwards. Everything quickly faded into the dull, haunting noise hammering away in his mind's eye.

.

 

.

 

He woke up again to John crouched over him. The static in his ears faded enough to make him aware of the fact that John was quite urgently calling his name and shifting him around to check for his vital signs and potential trauma areas. The nausea had subsided a good deal, but the dull ache in his stomach remained. Sherlock coughed a few times and winced as John pulled him into a sitting position. He could barely make out what John was saying. It was an endless, continual stream of anger, worry, and relief. _SherlockSherlockohthankgodfuckIjustgotinandIfoundyouhereIthoughtIthoughtyou'dneedanambulancefuckfuckohGodJesusSherlockdon'tdothatdon't..._ It was all so very...John. He couldn't help but smile. Had he even seen the mess in the sitting room?!

John sighed and frantically gathered a few things nearby. Sherlock scowled as he used a damp cloth to pat down his forehead. Everything was still spinning a bit. How long had he even been there on the floor near the sink? Felt like ages. The static was still around, but it just clouded the edge of his vision more than anything else. He badly needed a drink, and the toilet. He cleared his throat and winced at the wretched sound it made.

"John," he started weakly. "Water?"

"Right, right. God, you're dehydrated. Just relax, don't strain anything. You look so ill." John quickly fetched a glass from an upper cabinet and filled it with water from the tap. He gingerly placed the edge of the cup to Sherlock's lips, and he practically inhaled it, like he'd not had drink for years. Much better, even if his stomach momentarily disagreed. John took the glass away, filled it again, and repeated the process. He propped Sherlock up even straighter. "Feeling well enough to stand?"

"I think so, yes." And he did, albeit with John's help. He stumbled at first from the rush of blood to his head, but was otherwise capable of moving on his own, sluggishly. "What's the time?"

"Er...half eleven, last I checked. Dunno."

"Mm." Lost a good hour and some's worth of data to sleep, then. No matter, he'd had more than enough of his own experiment. Sherlock shifted and felt an even more urgent pressure in his groin. Bladder retention from the drug. Definitely, definitely anticholinergic. This had happened during his first exposure to it in the hollow, as well. He pissed for what felt like hours when he finally managed to drag himself back to their room. "John, could you...could you help me to the toilet? It's a bit urgent, so..."

John just nodded and helped him walk towards his bedroom. Somehow, Sherlock felt as though this was very...not invasive, not nearly as much as it would have been at any other time. After they finished in the toilet, John helped him get dressed into a clean t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, as well, neglecting to even ask the simplest questions of him. It was bliss. He'd likely have to explain himself the next day over breakfast, but this was fine in the meantime. Fine. His body still ached and his stomach still was on the cusp of a full-on rebellion, but at least John was here. He'd take care of him.

"You'd never hurt me, John," he fairly slurred against the side of his pillow, as John draped his bedsheets over him. No, John would never hurt him. God, John was so good, such a good man, good friend, good... _everything_. He loved everything about John. Sherlock turned as much as his neck would allow to look him in the face. Something incredibly warm was behind those eyes of his. Something Sherlock trusted with every fibre of his being. He couldn't stop himself smiling. If he had the energy, he would reach up and touch his best friend's cheek. Forehead, even. Something. John just sighed and quirked his eyebrows affectionately.

"Get some rest, you bloody idiot. If you need the loo again in the night, I'll be up. Just give a yell." Sherlock swallowed and nodded his head, still smiling deliriously. John gave him a gentle slap on the back as he turned on his heel towards the bedroom door. "I'll get you some more water. You still need replenishing." Sherlock turned to look John in the face. He wanted to see his eyes again before he drifted off and let the static take him under. John lingered in the doorway for several seconds and glanced back. His eyes were so beautiful. Something almost imperceptible shifted a bit behind them. What was it? Sherlock blinked in confusion, but his ridiculous smile remained. John stared at him, still. His eyes looked...incredible. Incredibly dark. Sherlock's smile faded when John cleared his throat, removing the edge from the Dublin accent slowly creeping in.

"You're right. 'Course. I'd never do anything to hurt you, you know. Sherlock."

.

 

.

 

**00:03**

 

"Right. Tuesday, is it?" John pulled his jacket on as he stepped out onto the pavement in front of Laura's. "Can't wait for it to warm up. Being overseas so long ruined the cold for me, I think." Laura smiled and leaned against the door frame of the building as John idly looked down the street for a cab to hail.

"Tuesday's fine for drinks, yeah. Call tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Better hurry off and see what that brilliant numpty is up to back at the flat." John opened the door of the cab and turned to wink at Laura, who giggled. "Not a single case on right now. Reckon even Sherlock has to have a dull night in sometimes."


End file.
